


Perdition

by in_chains_and_flesh_and_leather



Category: Mary Reilly - Valerie Martin, Midnight Special (2016)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:20:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26836609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/in_chains_and_flesh_and_leather/pseuds/in_chains_and_flesh_and_leather
Summary: In his quest to rid himself of a deep depression and recapture the virility and resilience of youth, Paul Sevier inadvertently unleashes a monster. The Professor and The Assistant struggle for control and vie for your attention, each in his own inimitable way. 19th century AU.
Relationships: Paul Sevier/Reader, Paul Sevier/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	1. 1

*

After his experience with that most peculiar boy, the Alton child, Paul Sevier started to suffer deep bouts of depression. To know there is a thinly veiled world of beauty atop this one, foul and wretched, is a curse. To divine it, to spy glimpses of it in one’s sleep is one thing – in the harsh light of day, you can tell yourself it was nothing but a phantasm, a spark of the divine in you, reminding you of the grace of God. Some bullshit like that.

But to have seen it, had your face kissed by it, your body permeated by indescribable sensations and then to have released it - this takes a piece of your soul with it, as Paul would discover, and that hole is forever teetering towards oblivion.

As the years went by, it got worse. Mr. Sevier received many grants and investments from philanthropists and other, less reputable, folks interested in the advancement of science through his preternatural gifts. He made useful discoveries, as well as engaging in questionable endeavors over the years. For long stretches of time, his work would keep him occupied and too involved to ponder the abyss.

In the last few years, his health had slowly started to deteriorate and, with it, his mood. He started experimenting with various drugs and procedures to find a way to keep the noxious vapors of melancholy and something far more hollow and wretched, at bay. Some things would work, for a time. Others not at all. Until he tried something entirely experimental, almost alchemistic and mystical in nature; boredom, curiously and agony – a powerful cocktail – getting the best of him.

This is when you entered his life, as well. What curious timing perdition has.


	2. 2

*

Once he had bought a grand estate, one large enough to hold all of his gloom, wide enough to give him the seclusion he required and equipped with a satisfactory laboratory – cavernous, operational and sound-proof, Paul Sevier found that he needed a live-in staff. So he hired a butler, a cook and several miscellaneous servants. As his work become more extensive, and his health declined, he found it was necessary to take on another worker, someone to keep his quarters in order, young and agile and, if at all possible, not offensively unintelligent.

The butler, Mr. Poole, hired you, knowing you had some formation in a convent, assuming they had taught to keep your mouth shut and do your work respectfully and diligently.

For several weeks, you worked like a specter on the enormous estate, unseen by the master of the house. You had seen a foot sticking out from under the covers once or twice, a tuft of raven hair, but no more than that. It was your responsibility to keep the study in order and bring the Professor his breakfast, among your other duties in the kitchen or the yard.

On rare occasions when there was a lull in the day and you were far enough away from the kitchen or the shed for anyone to invent some pointless work for you, you could look around the beautiful yard, perfect green grass in a straight line, beautiful nooks and gazebos for taking tea, a pond with a carefully monitored ecosystem allowing different exotic fish to live there… All of it wasted on you, servants, merely doing the upkeep, as the Professor seldom entertained and practically never engaged in any relaxation or levity.

*

On one such day, the other maid, Annie, was out with Bradshaw, the handyman, getting groceries and supplies, while you cleaned the fireplace. Bad dreams had kept you up for most of the night, so your energy was low and you took longer than you normally would. By this hour, you would have normally already received another assignment and vacated the kitchen, but now you were confronted by the fishmonger, practically attacking you with the fresh, a _living_ eel Mr. Poole was paying for.

You struggled with the writhing thing, knowing if would be impossible to pick up the dirty slithering coil of muscles should you drop it, but for the life of you, you couldn’t direct it where you wanted it to go.

Mrs. Kent, the cook, scolded you for not handling it better, gripping your arms and slamming them on the table, with surprising force for a woman, especially of her age.

“Now ‘old it tight lest you want me to chop your ‘and off.” – she warned, swinging the cleaver in the air and bringing it down, you not bearing to look.

Eyes still shut, heart pounding, she grabbed your hands again and directed them towards a hook she prepared, grabbing your hands and sticking the still twitching headless eel on it, pricking your finger on it in the process. You winced, but tried not to reveal your injury as she set about removing its skin.

The carnal horror of a thing barely dead, warmth and life still deceptively seeming to be present, savagely flayed and butchered… Coupled with your lack of sleep and utter bewilderment, it all made bile rise in your throat, worried you might vomit or get seriously woozy.

“I’ll go do some dusting.” – you whispered in the low volume you could muster, excusing yourself.

“Aye, go make yourself useful.” – Mrs. Kent laughed, amused by your sensitivity. Years of hard work will beat that out of you, she thought, not without compassion.

*

You busied yourself dusting in the study, though it was hardly necessary. It was your favorite room in the house and you kept it spotless out of sheer enjoyment of being there.

In a far corner, Paul was sitting in a chair with a long back, facing away from the room, quietly scribbling some notes when he heard you enter and stilled. Assuming it was Annie or someone else, he knew the staff had little interest in this room and would leave soon.

Paul expected to hear you singing some vulgar limerick to yourself or mutter about how the world was shit and unfair, how you had to dust these dreary books clean, so many and so boring, useless to you as you couldn’t even read. All the other maids did.

However, you ran a rag over clean shelves slowly, admiring the beautifully bound books, breathing in deeply and slowly, that romantic and intoxicating smell of paper, ink and leather. Shyly, you ran your fingers up particularly inviting spines, wincing when the hole in your finger opened and bled again.

To distract yourself, you pulled out a book and read the summary in a low whisper to yourself. “The Turn of the Screw, by Henry James. A story of accumulating suspense and excitement, it follows a young governess to two orphans, hired by their uncle, who leaves them to her exclusive care in the remote English country house of Bly. The pastoral idyll presented at the start descends into horror as the governess becomes convinced the children are consorting with a pair of malevolent spirits and follows her attempts to protect her wards from the perceived danger.”

To say he was stunned that you could read and did it so softly and reverentially, would be an understatement. Paul gingerly leaned over, not wanting to be spotted, but trying to catch a glimpse of you as you worked. He found you exceedingly graceful and careful, almost like a performance, though you were unaware of eyes on you. Perhaps that would abate in time. But for now you, you were an entirely new animal to him, making all sorts of cogs turn in his brain.

*

The next morning, Paul made sure to be awake when you brought in his breakfast. As usual, he had no desire to eat it – most food simply repulsed him lately. What he did want was to speak to you. Take a peek into your mind.

You came in as quietly as you could, as always, carrying a heavy tray with a wide selection of food, knowing you or Annie would be lowering it, untouched , into the kitchen in a few hours, once the Professor left his chambers.

“Oh. G-Good morning, sir.” – you looked at him, startled, thinking of whether you should explain why you were surprised and stuttering. But no, he would never care. He would think you self-important and impertinent, talking about yourself unbidden.

“You are surprised to find me awake. You must have taken me for a narcoleptic all these weeks.” – he mused, perhaps making a joke? From what the other staff told you, he was not a man for jokes.

“No. I mean, yes, surprised to find you awake. Mr. Poole explained you tend to work during the night.” – you retorted, not sure why he would bother speaking to you.

He leaned back, sleep still heavy on his lids, rumpled nightshirt falling over one shoulder so you could set the tray over his lap.

“When you have a wound, you shouldn’t lick it. Despite what common parlance has to say. Your mouth is full of contaminants, it can cause your wound to fester. No matter how small.”- he told you. You weren’t sure what he was talking about – if he had the habit of just blurting out medical advice. You nodded, your face revealing your confusion.

An almost imperceptible twitch pulled his lips up. – “I saw you in the study yesterday. Looking at my books and sucking your thumb like a baby.” – he clarified, making your guts twist.

“I’m sorry, sir, I–” – you started, not sure what you would offer as an explanation, but he ignored you.

“Let me see.” – he extended a hand from under the covers, asking for yours. Knowing it was unbecoming, but without another choice, you let him examine your hand. – “You can read?” - he asked, mind flitting from one topic to the next.

You nodded, too nervous to speak at first. - “I was taught at the convent.”

“If any book strikes your fancy, you are welcome in the study anytime. Chores pending or no.” – he announced, moving his gaze and warm fingers from the small wound to your hand at large, twisting it in his, feeling the skin. – “And should Mr. Poole or Mrs. Kent scold you, say I ordered you retell them that story to edify them.” – he said, joking again? Making fun of you? You weren’t sure. He released your hand with a pensive look on his face. – “You should be fine. But remember what I said. And if you injure yourself in any way again, you come to me.” – he looked in your eyes for the first time, every bit an imposing, erudite gentleman, even half asleep in his nightshirt, and your heart leapt to your throat.


End file.
